


where the red's all red

by brinnanza



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mazikeen/Linda Martin (mentioned/implied), Misunderstandings, No knowledge of Lucifer required, Pining, The Ritz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: “So are you in town for long then?” Aziraphale asks in a honeyed voice. Crowley can hear the extremely tenuous grip on his temper in it.“Nope,” says Maze, popping the p. She takes a long drink of the newly-poured wine and then reaches over to yank her knife out of the table, gesturing with the point. “Just came to collect my bounty, and I’m onlyhere-” she makes a little circular motion with the knife to indicate the Ritz “- to tell you two to get your shit together so I don’t have to listen to Crowley whine about it anymore.”





	where the red's all red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zetared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetared/gifts).

> Absolutely no knowledge of Lucifer is required for this fic as all the salient information is in the story. This fic uses book omens characterizations/plot but tv omens timeline and takes place, roughly, during the period of several months that Maze was out of town during Lucifer season 4. Listen, I dumped all three canons in a blender and hit puree. This mostly follows good omens theology rather than Lucifer.
> 
> Thanks to Glorya for looking this over for me. The title is from the Queen song "Dragon Attack" because 1. I endeavor to use increasingly obscure Queen songs as title sources and 2. Maze scary.
> 
> For Zeta, who's to blame for both of these special interest spirals.

A ripple of nervous whispers precedes the young woman that stalks into the main dining room of the Ritz. If she were anyone else, Crowley might wonder how she’d made it past the maitre d’ dressed in tight leather trousers and a top that appears to be made entirely of straps, but dress codes, no matter how strict, have a tendency to evaporate when met with Mazikeen.

She spots Crowley and Aziraphale at their usual table and makes her way toward them. Crowley knows better than to assume she’s unarmed just because she’s not holding a weapon at that precise moment, and sure enough, as soon as she reaches the table, a knife materializes from somewhere, possibly raw firmament, and she jams it into the table with a loud _thunk_, tearing a neat puncture in the tablecloth.

“‘Sup,” she says with a nod.

Most demons, in Crowley’s experience, are not nearly as scary as they sometimes pretend to be. Demons like a bit of drama by nature, and they tend to go in for theatrics. They talk a big game, flash knives or a bit of hellfire, but they’re usually easily ignored if one so chooses.

Maze is not most demons.

Aziraphale startles spectacularly at the interruption, his jaw dropping open in a shocked little ‘o’. His eyes flicker from the knife in the table to Maze and back to the knife before he finally drags his gaze up to look at Maze properly, eyes narrowed. Crowley would really like to avoid an inconvenient discorporation if it can be helped, not least because Aziraphale will complain endlessly about the paperwork, so before the angel can work himself up to a full lecture on appropriate behavior in fine dining establishments, Crowley says, “Hello, Maze. Fancy seeing you here.”

Maze grins at him, and it’s all teeth. Crowley’s not sure if she’s capable of smiling any other way.

Aziraphale turns his suspicious expression on Crowley. “Do introduce me to your… friend,” he says, with the sort of forced politeness he usually reserves for his colleagues Upstairs. He extends his hand to Maze. “My name is Aziraphale.”

“I know who you are,” Maze says, ignoring his hand. “You’re the reason I can’t get a damn word in edgewise.” She plucks Crowley’s wineglass out of his loose grasp and downs it, then turns to the next table over, dumps the diner’s purse out of the spare chair, and drops down into it. The owner of the purse gives a scandalized gasp, but abruptly thinks better of her protest when she catches sight of Maze’s knife in the middle of the table.

Crowley blinks at the dregs of red at the bottom of what had previously been his wineglass. “This is Mazikeen,” he says, suddenly very tired. “She’s a coworker.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows jump into his hairline. “You mean she’s--”

“A demon, yes,” says Maze. She leans across the table for Aziraphale’s wineglass and knocks that back too. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to kill you.”

“As if you could,” Aziraphale says haughtily, drawing himself up imperiously. And Aziraphale was chosen to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden for a reason, but Crowley doubts he’s ever met a demon quite like Maze before.

“I can,” Maze says, at the same time that Crowley says, “She could.”

Aziraphale huffs out a breath, and Crowley is once again responsible for preventing a probable discorporation. “Your boss didn’t come with you, did he?”

Maze rolls her eyes. “He’s your boss, not mine.” She leans over to snatch a cream puff from Aziraphale’s plate and pops it into her mouth. Aziraphale’s eyes go flinty, his lips pressed together in a thin, white line, but he doesn’t comment. “And no, he’s still in LA.”

“Still?” California isn’t quite far enough for Crowley’s comfort, but at least he’s not in Hell, plotting Crowley’s eternal torment for his role in the whole Armageddon thing. 

Probably.

“Anyway,” Crowley says, “what are you doing here, Maze?” He eyes the wineglass again and then thinks better of it. It’s best to have his wits about him where Mazikeen is involved.

Maze shrugs. “What, I can’t visit a friend?”

“Are we friends?” Crowley says, a little alarmed. He hadn’t made a habit of visiting Hell over the millennia, but on the rare occasion he’d run into Maze Downstairs, she hadn’t really seemed like the friend-having type. Her time on Earth had definitely made her more amenable to certain humans, but Crowley hadn’t really counted himself among them. Still, she is the only demon Crowley’s ever met who really gets Earth the way he does, who appreciates the loud, bright, intoxicating mess of humanity and all of its inventions.

“Duh,” says Maze. She swipes another cream puff from Aziraphale and gestures at Crowley with it. “Not a lot of options for demon to demon chats when you’re stuck on Earth.” That doesn’t really sound like friends to Crowley - more like a last resort - but he supposes he and Aziraphale hadn’t started on much better footing. “Also I got a bounty that managed to sneak onto an international flight. Two birds, one knife, y’know?”

That, at least, sounds more like Maze. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, tracking them down?”

“Nah, I’m letting him think he got away with it. Makes it more fun when I show up to take him down.” Maze waves over their server as she speaks, gesturing to the empty glasses in front of her. The server obliges, sparing a nervous glance at the knife stuck into the table, and Crowley makes a note to leave him an extra large tip.

“So are you in town for long then?” Aziraphale asks in a honeyed voice. Crowley can hear the extremely tenuous grip on his temper in it. 

“Nope,” says Maze, popping the p. She takes a long drink of the newly-poured wine and then reaches over to yank her knife out of the table, gesturing with the point. “Just came to collect my bounty, and I’m only _here_ -” she makes a little circular motion with the knife to indicate the Ritz “- to tell you two to get your shit together so I don’t have to listen to Crowley whine about it anymore.”

“To get our - what?” Aziraphale says with a scandalized little gasp. Crowley inhales very slowly through his nose and reconsiders if not being sober for this conversation is worth the risk of one or both of them being killed.

Maze leans back in the chair, knife spinning around her thumb idly. “I mean you two need to-”

“Yes, yep, noted, Maze,” Crowley cuts in before she can finish the sentence, because that is a conversation he _definitely_ does not want to have sober. Or at all. “Thanks so much for stopping by; see you around.” He gets to his feet and means to usher her out of her chair, but his hands flutter uselessly by her shoulders when she flips her blade around and touches the tip of her tongue to one very pointed canine. _Try it_ is written all over her expression, and she leans back, crossing her legs pointedly.

Aziraphale arches a brow at the two of them. “Do you want to tell me what she’s talking about, my dear?” he says, turning that sticky sweetness on Crowley.

Crowley shoots a glare at Maze, and she gives him a toothy grin. “It’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ is exactly the problem,” Maze says. “What you two need is a little _something something_.” She leers at Crowley, dragging the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.

“Maze…” Crowley says, but it’s less a warning and more a desperate plea for mercy.

“I’m just saying you two should--”

“And how’s Linda these days, Maze?” Crowley says, throwing it out as a last resort and praying to a neutral party that Maze doesn’t reward him with the sharp end of her blade between his ribs. “Still seeing that angel?”

Maze narrows her eyes and Crowley swallows hard. “She’s fine,” Maze says flatly. “She’s pregnant.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, a little surprised his gambit actually worked. “And are you the --”

“Don’t be stupid.”

That doesn’t really answer the question, but Crowley doesn’t fancy paying for more information with his life. “Congratulations?”

“Whatever.” Maze gives the knife another idle twirl, eyeing first Crowley and then Aziraphale, whose expression is lingering somewhere between curious and scandalized as it always does when demons are involved. “Anyway, you and Archie here need to fuck.”

Aziraphale’s chin drops, mouth hanging open, and Crowley plants his face in his hands. “Maze….” he growls through his fingers as Aziraphale splutters beside him. 

“_What_?!” Aziraphale manages after about a minute, voice high and tight with a mix of shock and offense, which is precisely why Crowley had wanted to _avoid_ this conversation. Aziraphale will bristle at the implication angels might deign to pursue carnal pleasures and swing wildly in the opposite direction toward asceticism, which makes him insufferable, and Crowley will have to spend the next several weeks talking him round to dinner and drinks again. “How _dare you_.”

Maze is, as usual, unfazed. “What? I’m just saying you two should bang. You’re clearly into each other; I could see you making eyes at each other from across the room. So get it out of your system or whatever so I don’t have to listen to Crowley moan about his fucking feelings anymore. It’s literally torture, which is supposed to be my job.”

“Not that,” Aziraphale says sharply, and Crowley does a double take. Aziraphale’s fork is gripped tightly in one hand like he’s considering letting it stand in for his flaming sword. “My _name_ is _Aziraphale_.”

“Close enough,” Maze says with a wave of her hand, though the look she’s giving the angel now is almost approving. She could easily bat away any attack Aziraphale might make against her, but violence is a come-on as far as Maze is concerned, and she’d probably respect him more if he tried it. 

She gives her knife one last spin and then tucks it away, getting up from her chair. “Don’t call me until you’re done with the pathetic pining,” she says to Crowley. “Put on your big demon pants. I’m out.”

Crowley lets out a long, weary groan and drops his head to rest on his crossed arms, resolving firmly to never speak to anyone about anything ever again. It wasn’t like he’d spent hours and hours on the phone with Maze anyway. They’d spoken a few times, mostly about work-related things. Maybe Crowley had mentioned Aziraphale once or twice after he’d found out Maze had had her own dalliances with an angel, just out of the sheer relief of having another demon who understood they were all the same original stock, but he’d hardly call it constant whining. Maybe a couple of the mentions had been slightly tinged with longing, but coveting is right there in the bylaws for demons. It’s work, practically.

After a minute, Crowley picks his head up off of the table. He spares a quick miracle for the knife wound in the table. “Sorry about that,” he says as the tablecloth knits back together, erasing the little hole. “Maze means well, but she’s…” He makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “...Maze. Do you want to order another dessert?”

Aziraphale is peering at him with eyes that are just a bit too keen. “No, that’s alright.”

“Okay,” says Crowley. “Let me just -” He waves over their server and handles the bill in what surely must be record time, complete with a slightly over-generous tip, and then follows Aziraphale out to where the Bentley is parked outside.

They ride back to the bookshop in silence. Crowley hits play on the Blaupunkt for something to fill the air, and it promptly launches into the last verse of Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, because the whole universe is out to get Crowley today, apparently. “Not you too,” he hisses and wrenches the volume knob to off.

He pulls up outside the bookshop, and Aziraphale pauses beside him, one hand on the door handle. His face is carefully neutral, which is almost always a portent of doom. “About what your friend said,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, proving Crowley’s reticence to be perfectly founded, “About us… Well. Was she right? Do you want to have sex with me?”

Crowley viscerally regrets not downing a full bottle of wine before leaving the Ritz, and a little part of him resents Aziraphale for not having the courtesy to wait until they’re both fantastically pissed in the bookshop’s back room before having this conversation.

Because it’s not like Crowley’s never thought about it before. Sex is a useful motivation in his line of work - humans will do almost anything to get it or because they aren’t getting it or because someone else is doing it. It’s hard to tempt humanity, or even to exist among them, without the whole sex thing being broadcast from all sides. So of course Crowley has considered it. Imagined it, even. 

He forces a laugh that comes out strangled and a bit manic. “No?” he says as if it’s a question. “No, Maze is just - she thinks everyone works like she does. I don’t - I mean, I hadn’t thought.... Unless - do you…?” Crowley had long ago decided that he was perfectly happy with the world’s other, non-carnal pleasures, but if there’s even the slightest chance Aziraphale wants this… It might even be nice with Aziraphale, the two of them skin to skin in Crowley’s silk sheets. And afterwards, Aziraphale could stroke his fingers through Crowley’s hair while he read and Crowley napped, curled up all along the warmth of Aziraphale’s body.

“If it’s something you want, I’m willing to try it,” Aziraphale says reasonably, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation about a perfectly normal new activity and not the very embarrassing cause of Crowley’s imminent discorporation. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.”

“I don’t,” Crowley says, too quickly. “Unless you want to.”

Aziraphale reaches over to pat Crowley’s hand. “Not particularly,” he says, “so we won’t. Personally, I’ve never seen what the fuss is about. It’s pleasant, sure, but so is a nice tawny port.” He opens the door then, climbing out of the Bentley while Crowley stares after him and tries in vain to process this new Earth-shattering bit of information. “Come along, dearest,” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder.

Crowley gets out of the car.

\--

He’s fairly deep in his cups on a lovely 1858 Chateau Margaux when Aziraphale reaches across the sofa to lay his hand significantly on top of Crowley’s and say, with the sort of mulish sincerity that usually precedes major misunderstandings, “Do you know, my dear, there is very little I wouldn’t give you if you’d only ask for it.”

Crowley blinks at him, a bit too soused for suspicion. “Okay,” he says, cheeks going warm. He ducks his head behind the rim of his glass. Aziraphale’s little declarations of affection are not exactly uncommon these days since the world didn’t end, but Crowley still has to contend with the possibility of spontaneous combustion every time the angel does it. “You too, you know.”

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale says. He sets his wineglass on the table beside the sofa and turns to face Crowley properly. “So is there anything? Something you haven’t wanted to say perhaps?”

Crowley should have known the earlier conversation in the car wouldn’t be the end of it. “I don’t think so?” he says, and it’s entirely honest. He’d be perfectly content to spend the rest of eternity right here, curled up beside Aziraphale on this monstrosity of a sofa. Feeding the ducks in St James. Discovering charming new restaurants. Watching Aziraphale delight in all the hedonistic little pleasures the world has to offer.

“No?” Aziraphale says. “I won’t laugh or judge you or anything, if that’s what youre worried about.”

Actually, judging Crowley is one of Aziraphale’s favorite pastimes, because he’s a sanctimonious bastard when you got right down to it, but Crowley elects magnanimously not to call him on it. “There really isn’t anything, angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, head tilted, and a little of Crowley’s pleasant wine buzz evaporates. “But there must be something you want. Your friend Maze said-”

“Maze exaggerates,” Crowley cuts in darkly. Because yes, maybe there are things he wants, things Aziraphale can’t and won’t give him. Aziraphale is still an angel, and Crowley is still a demon. Aziraphale loves everything because that’s his job, but there are things even angels can’t love.

_She_ had made that perfectly clear.

“Well you must have been talking to Maze about _something_,” Aziraphale says, voice going snippy. “What would you tell her that you couldn’t tell me?” He actually looks a little hurt, the manipulative bastard. Crowley’s almost impressed.

“It’s nothing,” Crowley insists.

“She used to word ‘pining’, Crowley.”

“I said it’s nothing!”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to have sex?”

“_Yes_, angel, I’m sure.”

“Well then I just don’t understand,” Aziraphale says, and if his wings were on this physical plane, the feathers would be all puffed up like an irritated owl. “If you don’t want to have sex, what more could you possibly want?”

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s pouty little frown on Aziraphale’s mouth. Maybe it’s six thousand years and an air field tarmac, the end of the world and its new beginning. Maybe it’s none of these, or all of them.

“You,” Crowley says, and it comes out soft, fragile. “I just want… you.”

“Crowley, you have me,” Aziraphale says. 

But of course he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the breadth of the chasm Crowley is asking him to step over. “No,” Crowley says, “No, not like that. I mean I want -”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. He reaches for him, cupping Crowley’s face in his palm. “You have me. Any way you mean. Any way you like. You have me.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, and all the air rushes out of him, like he’d been struggling to breathe around a too-big balloon in his chest that has finally, finally, been deflated. He’d never even considered… But of course things are different now, in the wake of this new world. “Oh, I…”

Aziraphale’s smile is a soft thing, tender. “Darling,” he says fondly. “You daft old serpent. You have always had me, right from that day in the garden.” The hand on Crowley’s cheek bids him forward, and Crowley goes, always, inexorable.

It’s far from the first time they’ve kissed. It’s gone in and out of vogue over the millennia as a show of platonic affection, but this kiss is something entirely new. There’s meaning in it, a mutual significance that’s never been there before.

Or, then again, perhaps it always has.

\--

The moment the call connects, Maze says, in lieu of greeting, “If you’re not naked and post coital right now, I’m hanging up the phone.”

Crowley wrinkles up his nose. “Why would I be - no, I just called to say thank you.”

There’s a pause. “So you two finally banged?”

Crowley sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering vaguely why every conversation with Maze has to be a trial. “Not everyone is obsessed with sex are you are.”

“So you didn’t bang?” Crowley can hear the frown in her voice. “I’m hanging up.”

“We talked!” Crowley yelps before she can hang up on him. “We talked. And we sorted it out. It’s kind of funny, actually. Apparently Aziraphale thought we were way past any sort of romantic declarations, so he didn’t know-”

“Ugh, stop!” Maze shouts, and Crowley laughs. “I wanted to hear _less_ sappy bullshit, not _more_! The longing was bad enough, Crowley; I do not need to hear every mushy detail about your relationship. I get enough of it from your boss.”

“We could talk about you,” Crowley suggests. “How are things going with Linda and Amenadiel?”

Maze groans. “I’m never helping anyone ever again,” she says, and hangs up on him.

Maybe he’ll just send her some new weapons.


End file.
